Thursday, December 21, 2017

A handwritten sign for a tag sale on Meriweather Lane caught
my eye as I drove home after some Christmas shopping.A tag sale!In December!Did I really want or
need to shuffle around a chilly garage perusing someone’s cast-offs?Of course not.

But I took the left on Meriweather, pulled over to the curb
in front of a brick McMansion, and parked.I silenced the radio and Perry Como’s jolly partridges and pears and pocketed my
keys.As I walked up the driveway, a dog
barked inside the house, and a male voice called out, “Be there in a
minute!Just putting on a sweater!”

The garage door gaped open to admit me, watery sunlight, and
raw cold.Tables laden with books, worn holiday
decorations, tin cookie cutters, clay molds, stacks of vinyl record albums, craft
supplies, and a battalion of miniature Eiffel Towers were set wherever they
could fit.I had to inch past a folded
wheelchair to view items toward the back.

Drawn by the cover illustration of a koala, I flipped
through the pages of a children’s book.The colorful pictures of raccoons, owls, and bears were appealing, so I
decided to buy it for my grandson, Paul. Other than that, my browsing was done
and when the homeowner appeared, I was ready to leave.

He was pale and slight of build, and his flyaway, graying hair
was disheveled, no doubt from the tussle with his argyle sweater.He gave me a rundown on general pricing then
added, “unless it’s something unique... like Susan’s wheelchair.”

He was clearly disappointed when I held up my lone find.

“Oh.Well. That’ll be
$.25.”

As I rooted about in my pocketbook for a quarter, I remarked
on his courage in holding a December tag sale.

“Truthfully, I’ve been holding them off and on since
July.My wife – that’s her wheelchair –
died in June.”

“Oh no.I’m so sorry….”

“They wanted to put Susan in a home, but I promised her that
as long as I lived I would take care of her here.And I did.”

His eyes reddened as he spoke with admiration of Susan’s
degrees, career, and command of five languages.“When I think of her at a podium, speaking before large audiences… or
here, hosting parties for her students… yes, she was like that.We always had groups of students around.And then," he paused, his voice wavering, "she had a stroke.So, take care of any little health issues you
have: high blood pressure, high cholesterol, diabetes.These took Susan down.”

He pulled out a handkerchief and wadded it to his eyes as
tears flowed. My own eyes filled as I imagined the difference in this man and
this house when Susan - vibrant, brilliant Susan - was here as companion and
hostess.

Christmas is poignant even in the absence of loss.The plastic bins hauled from our attic are
filled with memories. Christmases past are layered between white sheets of
tissue: popsicle stick ornaments made by my kids in elementary school, the velveteen
Santa from my parents for Tucker’s first Christmas.Ornaments of bread dough and papier mache
that conjure family craft projects in the early eighties.So many Santas, angels, and artfully
decorated Styrofoam balls given or created over the years by friends and
family.I miss those days when my own
parents were youthful and strong, when our kids, giddy with excitement, snuggled
in bed to wait for Saint Nicholas.

But Christmas Present is richly blessed!The day itself has not yet arrived, and Dave
and I have already celebrated in Rhode Island with my side of the family. We attended a joyful musical performance at
our grandniece’s school and reveled at the cascades of confetti at
its end. We have gathered with friends over too-much food, joined the shopping bustle
at Barnes and Noble and the mall, and listened, happily, to countless versions
of “White Christmas.” And we helped our daughter and her husband prepare for
their first party in their new house.

How many times have I looked over at my Dave through all
these festivities and felt a prickle in my nose at seeing that dear, beaming
face loving these people and cherishing these moments as fully as I am?Soon enough, these will be the days that make me misty even as now I miss their
brethren past.

We recently discovered a treasure from 1982, a tape of
Tucker reciting "The Night Before Christmas” with the help of a few cues whispered
in the background by his dad.Dave and I
listen and smile, eyes bright and damp as our little one’s childish sing-song
voice announces, “BUMPF! Down the chimney Saint Nicholas came with a bound,”
adding that ”BUMPF!” as we always did in reading the story to him, just as we add
it now while reading to Paul.And Paul
hoots, “BUMPF!” with the same exuberance his father once did.

Recently my sister Rita sent a nostalgic text after she’d
re-read a commemorative book she’d made with the hymns, readings, and eulogies
from my dad’s funeral.“I honestly
thought it had been four years [since he died],” she wrote, “I’m losing time!It’s been six!”It’s hard to believe my big, solid, mischievous,
boisterous, funny, beloved father has been among the ghosts of Christmases past
for that long.

The other night, Dave and I were out to dinner at Molto, one
of our favorite restaurants. Surrounded by the chatter, lights, and festivity
of the season, I borrowed Dave’s handkerchief and tearfully confessed my
maudlin musings.I mentioned my
nostalgic memories, and touched on my clash of joy, guilt, and sorrow in the staggering
contrast between our lives and the suffering people of Syria, the
hurricane-bereft homeless in Florida and Puerto Rico, and yes - the starving
children of India. I was on a roll, and
I snuffled into his handkerchief while ranting about our poor country, upended
by violence and inept governance.

Dave regarded me, his brow furrowed with loving frustration.“You have too many black crayons in your
crayon box,” he said.

Maybe.Maybe.But it’s not so much about shadows as wishing
everyone could have it as good as we do. And I want better from our leaders. As he did
to Scrooge, I want Dickens’s Marley to shake his chains and wail in fury at
those driven by power and money. I want them to absorb his remorse over his
pursuit of gold when he should have known that “mankind was my business.The common welfare was my business: charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence
were all my business.The dealings of my
trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!” Let’s add the health of the planet and well-being
of our fellow creatures to that list, while we’re at it.

And oh, how I wish Susan were still here to celebrate
Christmas with her grieving husband on Meriweather Lane.After paying for the koala book, it was time
to leave.Why would I linger longer in that
cold, sad garage? In parting, I drew the man in his argyle sweater into my arms,
and the two of us cried and held each other.Then I returned to the blessing of Perry Como and my cozy car for the
drive home to my Dave.

Friday, December 8, 2017

No offense to fans and practitioners, but in my husband’s
opinion, the road to hell is a gauntlet lined with the wheeze and whine of
bagpipes.He might be alone in his view,
and, in fact, I recently learned at the National Christmas Center that, for
centuries, bagpipes were used by shepherds to soothe their flocks, and may have
played a lullaby for the newborn Jesus.For a short time longer, the Christmas Center invites visitors on an extraordinary
journey into the season’s history, cultural impact, fun, and inspiration.

With my mother and sister, Rita, I drove past rolling
fields, silos, farms, and Amish carriages to reach the National Christmas
Center in Paradise, PA. Like a geode,
the plain exterior betrays nothing of the sparkle inside. Nor does the foyer, or the glimpse of the
gift shop. Near the ticket counter, a
life-sized mannequin in Victorian garb slouches against the wall. While his hang dog expression reflects more the
post-Christmas exhaustion of vendors and parents than the holiday’s magic, he
is a charming hint of what awaits in the rooms ahead.I was not the only one barely repressing the urge to clap my
hands, jump up and down, and say “yippee!” like a child on Christmas morning
while viewing this extraordinary collection of Christmas memorabilia, full-scale
re-creations of iconic settings, and even a walk-in Woolworth’s. The piped-in hymns and Christmas carols
harmonized with the visitors’ chorus of “Wow! Beautiful,” “Oh my gosh, remember
that?” or, “I had one of those!”
Exhibits range from kitschy to reverent, from familiar to novel, from historic
to nostalgic, rekindling that wonderful childhood December immersion in
commercial and mystical promises.

We walked galleries of cobbled streets winding through
softly lighted “villages” and peered through multi-paned windows to learn about
Christmas crafts, traditions, and beliefs from around the world. I stood
eye-to-eye with stunning, remarkably life-like representations of Father
Christmas. We were enchanted as any small child by the animatronic reindeer and
elves in Santa’s workshop, and the detailed vignettes that embody the story of
the woodland creatures of “Tudor Towne.”

Innumerable threads weave through each person’s sense of
Christmas, and Jim Morrison, the founder and curator of the Christmas Center, seems
to have thought of them all. There are vintage
decorations, china sets, advertising art, countless Santa interpretations, a
vast collection of crèches, and a desk formerly owned by Clement Clark Moore,
author of “The Night Before Christmas.” A flickering newsreel of an aging Virginia
O’Hanlon runs in a loop as she recalls the letter she wrote in 1897 as an eight-year-old with a faltering belief in Santa.
Spurred by her father’s confidence that, “If you see it in The [New
York] Sun, it’s so,” she wrote to the paper, seeking truth. Newsman Francis Pharcellus Church provided
the paper’s reassuring, hopeful response, “Yes,
VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity
and devotion exist…”

As Mom, Rita, and I neared
the end of our tour, glass cases filled with crèches gave way to narrow alleys
and the gray stucco walls of ancient Bethlehem. We visitors became pilgrims joining shepherds,
wise men, donkeys, sheep, and a camel to circle close and behold the Holy
Family.

Remember the goony be-speckled kid in the pink bunny pajama
suit in “The Christmas Story”? You’ll
spot him at the museum. Remember Patty
Play Pal, pink and blue plastic piggy banks, and Ginny dolls? They’re there too. Remember velvety nights lying on your stomach
under a Christmas tree studying a creche, surrounded by the glow of lights, and
suffused with joyful anticipation? You’ll feel that at the Center.

But not for long.

Unless a patron miraculously steps forward, the National
Christmas Center is closing in January… So make a plan to go; you do not want
to miss it.

Monday, November 6, 2017

I’m all about visuals, but during this Boston trip, sounds have led to adventure. So when
Dave, Paul, and I heard the sonorous blatt of tuba and trombone as we headed
home at the end of an evening playground romp, we changed course to
investigate.

A jostling, foot-tapping, dancing crowd, drawn as we were,
had gathered in yet another playground near Davis Square. Dave lifted Paul onto
his shoulders and we inched in and angled for a better view.

The musicians were a motley group of older men with graying
hair pulled back in ponytails.Most wore
black shirts, shorts and socks, and we bobbed and swayed along with them.Heavy on horns and snare drums, they played a
loose New Orleans jazz that flowed into a jerky Arabian accompaniment for the
belly dancers.

Belly dancers!My
heavens! Three women in garish, burgundy harem garb tapped finger cymbals and
gyrated gleefully in unison.Ample,
naked, midriff flesh rippled, as trained, while two apparent acolytes followed
the lead of their seasoned mentor, a middle-aged gypsy with flowing raven
tresses.They spun and gestured, their penciled
eyebrows arched, scarlet lips upturned in come-hither smiles.

“Wow, Paul! What do
you think?”

What was the child
to think?And could he hear me over the
tinny din and eager applause of the crowd? From his perch on Dave’s shoulders,
he watched intently, his face impassive, his gaze unwavering as the women
wiggled and tapped their cymbals.

The music wound down, and the dancers shimmied to the side. In
a quick, smooth transition, the Dead Music Capital Band took their place. Yes, their faces were painted skull white,
and yes, fake blood dripped from a hatchet in one musician’s head, but their
extensive horn section and bass drums produced a powerful, swelling,
fill-your-chest-with-joy volume of sound.

We’d grasped that Halloween in the offing would explain the
blood and skeletal affectations, but still….”What’s this all about?” I asked a woman near me.

“It’s the Honk!” she said.

Oh, that explains it….

“The parade is tomorrow!Starts at noon from Davis Square!”

Well! As we wheeled Paul home to dinner and bed, he
stretched out and relaxed in his stroller, satisfied by the evening’s
entertainment. We still had no idea what was going on, but sure as hell, we
would be at Davis at noon!

At 12:00 on the dot the next day, the three of us joined
thousands of other enthusiasts on the sidewalk on Mass Ave. Paul was back at his station on Dave’s
shoulders, his expression still inscrutable, which seemed about right given
last night’s introduction.

By now, Dave and I had Googled the Honk and learned this was
the 12th anniversary of the “Festival of Activist Street
Bands.”Last night, the message had not
been the focus, but this morning, the full array of Boston’s diverse population
and social consciousness was literally on parade.Stilt-walkers, cyclists, floats, and bands
marched or danced or wheeled on by, exuberantly proclaiming solidarity with groups
and causes close to home (a faculty walk-out) and across the globe: climate
change, clean energy, Black Lives Matter, LGBT rights, peace on Earth, Dreamers,
and Freedom for Tibet.

Lady Liberty was well represented in green foam headdresses
and large-scale statues, her promise of equality and welcome deeply meaningful
for this city of immigrants, for this country
of immigrants. And my heart was lifted,
in these troubling times of competing fears and worries, to see so many people
out creatively declaring their commitment and concern.

While Paul remained transfixed more than overjoyed, we delighted in directing his attention
to the startling mix of outrageous fantasy and the comfortably familiar
portrayed in vibrant costumes, crepe, and papier mache. “Look Sweetie! What’s that?”

“Ephalent!”

“Yes!An elephant!”

“And look! Butterflies!”

“Butta-fies!”

“Yay!Whoa! Check it
out, Paul!A dragon!”

“Dragon!”

And so, in being with our grandson, led by our senses and
open to opportunity, we happened upon the Honk with its belly dancers, bands,
community … and dragons.

Sunday, October 22, 2017

As I rocked my grandson in my arms in the darkened room
before settling him into his crib for the night, I whispered, “You had so many
adventures today!”Paul snuggled against
my chest, waiting...My son and his wife
started this routine when Paul was an infant; after putting on his pajamas and
reading a few cozy stories, they turn down the lights, and in soft voices,
review his day.

“You saw the men fixing the sidewalk this morning,
remember…?”

Dave had been taking a shower, and Paul and I had gone
outside to retrieve the sponge Red Sox baseball bat Paul tossed over the
balcony.The bat was in the neighbors’
yard, under a small fir tree.“Do you
see the bat?Can you get it?”

I opened the gate to the fence, he fetched the bat, and
raised it proudly for me to see.

Suddenly, the pounding of a jackhammer
shattered the morning quiet.“Wow!What’s that?Let’s go check it out!”I said.

“Check it out!” replied Paul as we walked toward a sound
from which most people would flee.

Paul is 22 months old and fast on his feet, so I have terrifying mental images of him
smacking his head on the sidewalk or darting into the road.So, “Take my finger, sweetie,” I said.“Good boy.Thank you,” and we headed toward the noise.

While one might think curiosity about that thundering sound
would override all else, there was much to inspect within the block and a half
we covered.

Paul stopped, pointed, and squatted on his haunches.“Those are ants!”I said.

“Ants!” said Paul, his voice gentle and intrigued.

“See how busy they are? They’re helping their friends take
food to their home.See the hole?That’s their home.”

“That’s their home,” he said… or something close.

With his eyes, Paul followed the scurrying ants while shamelessly
I indoctrinated him with the value of even the smallest lives, the importance
of helping, the satisfaction of good work.

Nearby, drifts of dried maple seeds had collected in the
dirt at the base of a small sapling.Yesterday,
Dave demonstrated the fun of these “helicopters,” so Paul scooped up two
handfuls and tossed them in the air. “Watah-fall!” he cried as they spun and
tumbled.

“Wheeeeee!” I whooped, as I tossed high another handful.

“Wheeee!”Paul joined
in, as seeds rained down around us.

Oh, being with our boy reminds me of the joys and wonder of
this world.The fascinating industry of
ants.The exhilaration of maple seeds swirling
as they fall. The allure of a jackhammer
ratcheting against concrete.Hm.Yes.That
too.

Finger in small fist, we resumed our walk toward the
deafening report.“Big truck!”Paul said with glee.

He was right!A dump truck
and a backhoe were waiting to haul
away broken chunks of sidewalk.“Look!See that man?He has a pickaxe.Can you say
‘pickaxe’?(Of course, he could!)He’s breaking off pieces and putting them
into the shovel.Look at that big shovel
on the backhoe!”

“Shovel on the backhoe!” repeated Paul, or something close.

We sat on the stairs of a house across the street from the
action and watched as I rattled off explanations and questions. “What color is the dump truck? That man’s shirt? The backhoe?”

I’d mistakenly told Paul that vehicle was a steam shovel,
but not wishing to misinform my grandson, I asked one of the men and he
corrected me; the good men of public works were tickled to have such curious, enthusiastic
spectators. Periodically they waved or gestured toward what they were
doing.In parting, I yelled over the
clamor of the engine to tell them they might have a young apprentice.They called back, “Nah!This work’s too hard.Tell him to stay in school!”

Later that day, after lunch and Paul’s nap, Dave, Paul’s “Tato,”
joined us for a trip to the grocery store.As if the Universe had not been generous enough in providing this
morning’s backhoe and dump truck, hook and ladder engine #9 was parked in the
back of the lot.“Look Paul!What do you see?”We whooped.

Pointing with a chubby, index finger, Paul hooted, “Big fire
truck!” Not just close this time, but
clear as day.

Two firefighters manned the truck, both named Mike.“Fist
bump?” Mike #1 asked Paul.Oh yeah.Tiny fist met meaty fists as Mikes #1 and #2
greeted our boy.“Want to sit in the
truck?”said Mike #1 as he jumped down
from his post.

“Whoa!Look at you,”
Dave and I crowed as Paul perched on the seat… too close to the edge I
thought.So I hovered, hands raised in
case he lurched forward, while the two Mikes smiled their encouragement.

But there was shopping yet to be done, so Dave and I gushed
our thanks, and we all waved bye-bye. So
many dear, burly men in Paul’s wake today, grinning at our little one and
waving bye-bye!

For young parents, grocery shopping is one list among many,
exhausting if it follows a day at work, an annoyance on the weekend when it
takes up free time.For us, Paul’s Tato
and his LeaLea, it was anything Paul wanted it to be, as long as we wound up
with the makings for dinner.

Usually, I don’t take time to notice, much less marvel at the
shapes and colors tucked in the shelves of Stop and Shop. But with Paul, I saw the
beauty in mounds of shiny apples, ponderous pumpkins, and dimpled oranges.We pointed, and Paul named them, as shoppers
around us smiled and said, “Smart boy!”

We’d decided on tilapia for dinner, and wheeled over to the
seafood counter, totally forgetting the surprise that waited there.OMG! Lobsters!
Could this day get any better?

Dave lifted Paul out of the cart so he could study closely those
crusty creatures, their waving antennae, and spidery legs.Paul noted the big ones and watched as some
little ones took their naps.I threw in
a comment about playing nicely with friends as a bully of a lobster clambered
over those napping babies.

Having never done this as parents – we were too busy!We had things to do! – we set Paul free and
followed him as he dashed down the aisles, weaving around displays and
indulgent, smiling shoppers, stopping dead periodically when something caught
his eye.In the pet department, an
elderly woman quizzed Paul on animal names, then looked at me and said,
“Treasure these times!It goes so fast…”

As if I don’t know!We last saw Paul a month ago, and already he is taller and slimmer.Already he has dropped some endearing words
and gestures as his pronunciation improves and he mimics more accurately.Already, he is more of a person, surer of
what he wants… and what he doesn’t.As I
did with Tucker and Casey, I try to freeze our time with this little boy, much
as I know it can’t be done.

In the darkened nursery that night, with Paul snoozy in his
striped pajamas, snuggled close to my chest, I whispered, “and you sat in a
fire truck.Do you remember the two
Mikes? And you went to the grocery
store, and watched the lobsters play with their friends.”

About Me

Quotes that I love

From My Grandfather’s Blessings by Rachel Naomi Remen, M.D.

“Life offers its wisdom generously. Not everyone learns. Life asks of us the same thing we have been asked in every class, “Stay awake,” “Pay attention.” But paying attention is no simple matter. It requires us not to be distracted by expectations, past experiences, labels and masks. It asks that we not jump to early conclusions and that we remain open to surprise. Wisdom comes most easily to those who have the courage to embrace life without judgment and are willing not to know, sometimes for a long time…”

Mahatma Gandhi:

“We must be the change we wish to see in the world.”

From the Desiderata:

“Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.”

An old prayer:

“Days pass and the years vanish and we walk sightless among miracles. Lord, fill our eyes with seeing and our minds with knowing. Let there be moments when your Presence, like lightening, illuminates the darkness in which we walk. Help us to see, wherever we gaze, that the bush burns, unconsumed. And we, clay touched by God, will reach out for holiness and exclaim in wonder, “How filled with awe is this place and we did not know it.”